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<h1 id="id02961" style="margin-top: 6em">CHAPTER XLI.</h1> "What a hot day!" said Fanny. "Every door and window is open. There is not a breath of air." "It will be calm all day," I said. "We have two or three days like this in a year. Give me another cup of coffee. Is it nine yet?" "Nearly. I ought to go to Hepsey's to-day. She wont be able to leave her bed, the heat weakens her so." "Do go. How still it is! The shadows of the trees on the Neck reach almost from shore to shore, and there's a fish-boat motionless." "The boat was there when I got up." "Everything is blue and yellow, or blue and white." "How your hair waves this morning! It is handsomer than ever." I went to the glass with my cup of coffee. "I look younger in the summer." "What's the use of looking younger here?" she asked gruffly. "You never see a man." "I see Ben coming with Verry, and Manuel behind." "Hillo!" cried Ben, pulling up his horses in front of the window. "We are going on a picnic. Wont you go?" "How far?" "Fifteen or twenty miles." "Go on; I had rather imprison the splendid day here." "There's nothing for dinner," said Fanny. "The fish-boat may come in, in time." "Will three o'clock do for you? If so, I'll stay with Hepsey till then." "Four will answer?" She cleared away my breakfast things and left me. I sat by the window an hour, looking over the water, my thoughts drifting through a golden haze, and then went up to my room and looked out again. If I turned my eyes inside the walls, I was aware of the yearning, yawning empty void within me, which I did not like. I sauntered into Verry's room, to see if any clouds were coming up from the north. There were none. The sun had transfixed the sky, and walked through its serene blue, "burning without beams." Neither bird nor insect chirped; they were hid from the radiant heat in tree and sod. I went back again to my own window. The subtle beauty of these inorganic powers stirred me to mad regret and frantic longing. I stretched out my arms to embrace the presence which my senses evoked. It would be better to get a book, I concluded, and hunted up Barry Cornwall's songs. With it I would go to the parlor, which was shaded. I turned the leaves going down, and went in humming: "Mount on the dolphin Pleasure," and threw myself on the sofa beside—Desmond! I dropped Barry Cornwall. "I have come," he said, in a voice deathly faint. "How old you have grown, Desmond!" "But I have taken such pains with my hands for you! You said they were handsome; are they?" I kissed them. He was so spare, and brown, and his hair was quite gray! Even his mustache looked silvery. "Two years to-day since I have worn the watch, Desmond." He took one exactly like it from his pocket, and showed me the inscription inside. "And the ruby ring, on the guard?" "It is gone, you see; you must put one there now." "Forgive me." "Ah, Cassy! I couldn't come till now. You see what battles I must have had since I saw you. It took me so long to break my cursed habits. I was afraid of myself, afraid to come; but I have tried myself to the utmost, and hope I am worthy of you. Will you trust me?" "I am yours, as I always have been." "I have eaten an immense quantity of oil and garlic," he said with a sigh. "But Spain is a good place to reform in. How is Ben?" I shook my head. "Don't tell me anything sad now. Poor fellow! God help him." Fanny was talking to some one on the walk; the fisherman probably, who was bringing fish. "Do you want some dinner?" "I have had no breakfast." "I must see about something for you." "Not to leave me, Cassy." "Just for a few minutes." "No." "But I want to cry by myself, besides looking after the dinner." "Cry here then, with me. Come, Cassandra, my wife! My God, I shall die with happiness." A mortal paleness overspread his face. "Desmond, Desmond, do you know how I love you? Feel my heart,—it has throbbed with the weight of you since that night in Belem, when you struck your head under the mantel." He was speechless. I murmured loving words to him, till he drew a deep breath of life and strength. "These fish are small," said Fanny at the door. "Shall I take them!" "Certainly," said Desmond, "I'll pay for them." "It is Ben in black lead," said Fanny. We laughed. At dusk Ben and Veronica drove up. Desmond was seated in the window. Ben fixed his eyes upon him, without stopping. We ran out, and called to him. "Old fellow," said Desmond, "willing or not, I have come." Ben's face was a study; so many emotions assailed him that my heart was wrung with pity. "Give her to me," Desmond continued in a touching voice. "You are her oldest friend, and have a right." "She was always yours," he answered. "To contend with her was folly." Veronica took hold of Ben's chin and raised his head to look into his face. "What dreams have you had?" But he made no reply to her. We were all silent for a moment, then he said, "Was I wrong, Des.?" "No, no." While, I was saying to myself, in behalf of Veronica, whose calm face baffled me, "Enigma, Sphinx"; she turned to Desmond, holding out her right arm, and said, "You are the man I saw in my dream." "And you are like the Virgin I made an offering to, only not quite so bedizened." He took her extended hand and kissed it. Ben threw the reins with a sudden dash toward Manuel, who was standing by, and jumped down. "Have tea with me," I asked, "and music, too. Verry, will you play for Desmond?" She took his arm, and entered the house. "Friend," I said to Ben, who lingered by the door, "to contend with me was not folly, unless it has kept you from contending with yourself. Tell me—how is it with you?" "Cassandra, the jaws of hell are open. If you are satisfied with the end, I must be." * * * * * After I was married, I went to Belem. But Mrs. Somers never forgave me; and Mr. Somers liked Desmond no better than he had in former times. Neither did Adelaide and Ann ever consider the marriage in any light but that of a misalliance. Nor did they recognize any change in him. It might be permanent, but it was no less an aberration which they mistrusted. The ground plan of the Bellevue Pickersgill character could not be altered. In a short time after we were married we went to Europe and stayed two years. These last words I write in the summer time at our house in Surrey, for Desmond likes to be here at this season, and I write in my old chamber. Before its windows rolls the blue summer sea. Its beauty wears a relentless aspect to me now; its eternal monotone expresses no pity, no compassion. Veronica is lying on the floor watching her year-old baby. It smiles continually, but never cries, never moves, except when it is moved. Her face, thin and melancholy, is still calm and lovely. But her eyes go no more in quest of something beyond. A wall of darkness lies before her, which she will not penetrate. Aunt Merce sits near me with her knitting. When I look at her I think how long it is since mother went, and wonder whether death is not a welcome idea to those who have died. Aunt Merce looks at Verry and the child with a sorrowful countenance, exchanges a glance with me, shakes her head. If Verry speaks to her, she answers cheerfully, and tries to conceal the grief which she feels when she sees the mother and child together. Ben has been dead six months. Only Desmond and I were with him in his last moments. When he sprang from his bed, staggered backwards, and fell dead, we clung together with faint hearts, and mutely questioned each other. "God is the Ruler," he said at last. "Otherwise let this mad world crush us now." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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